The Road Forgotten
by DjinniFires
Summary: She was lying on asphalt. Her shoulder burned with the worst pain she could recall. His mournful brown eyes searched her face and he called her "Belle." Her life had been chaos ever since. What if Rumple had left for Manhattan a week later? And Belle had left the psych ward? With no memory of him, would Belle fall in love with Rumple again? Ch 2: "No One Decides My Fate"
1. For as Long as I Can Remember

_**Chapter 1**_

**For as Long as I Can Remember**

_Mr. Gold's going to protect you. _That's what the strange man calling himself Jefferson had said before freeing her from the lockup ward. To find Mr. Gold's shop had taken ages. To find him inside had taken a few seconds more. For years human touch had meant ice baths, padded restraints, and daily injections. Then he'd embraced her. He'd wrapped his arms around her, nestled her head on his shoulder, and cried.

After that, she would have gone with him anywhere. Mr. Gold had known exactly what she needed. He'd driven her in his car straight to the woods. No stench of vomit and urine. No choking disinfectant. She'd breathed in the crisp, fresh aroma of pine and cedar.

Up a sun-dappled forest path, she'd followed Mr. Gold, wondering where he was leading her. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was night. She was lying on asphalt. Her shoulder burned with the worst pain she could recall. His mournful brown eyes searched her face and he called her _Belle._

Her life had been chaos ever since.

Propped up in her hospital bed—right back where she'd started—she pulled the blue blanket and white sheet up to her chin. If the covers hadn't been tucked at the bottom, she'd have pulled them over her head.

For as long as she could remember, she'd been Rosalie Mills—the mayor's crazy half sister, guilty of attacking their father with a knife, guilty of setting the family home on fire, guilty of hacking the neighbor's dog to pieces with an axe. Not that she'd remembered doing those things. Not that she'd ever felt herself capable of doing those things. Yet for more years than she could track, she'd been locked in a padded cell with a clanging metal door and rusty grated window—all because the mayor, the doctors and the nurses had insisted she had done those things.

Now the doctors and nurses were telling her that the mayor was actually an evil queen and she was Belle. The reasons for locking her up had been lies. Instead, she was a highborn lady. Her father was a nobleman. She'd been betrothed to a knight. Then she'd foresworn her exalted life to keep house for a magical imp in exchange for his aid against marauding ogres. The woman she was supposed to be was an honest-to-goodness fairytale heroine.

_And they say I'm crazy._

"Hypnosis plus amyl nitrate," said the tall, bony doctor with the heavy black beard. "We'll make her remember."

_No_, she thought. That treatment had never made Rosalie anything but a name people called her. How could more injections and more sessions of pretending to be hypnotized give her any of Belle's memories? They might as well try magic.

"How long will she be hospitalized?" This morning Mr. Morris French had shown up as her new next-of-kin—a father this time, kinder than fake sister Regina but equally a stranger. Equally unwilling to let her speak for herself.

"Hard to predict," the doctor replied. "Hard to predict."

She closed her eyes. _If only he had come_.

When Dr. Whale had first suggested calling Mr. Gold, she'd said _no_. With his talk of castles and talisman cups, either her gentle protector had gone mad or she'd been hearing voices. Trying to make sense of the fireball she'd seen in his hand or his blue glowing fingers waving her pain away had been even harder. Those irrationalities were either hallucinations or powers that made him the scariest man in the world.

Then a self-professed werewolf had visited her, claiming to be her best friend, followed by a solicitous bearded man identifying himself as one of Snow White's seven dwarves. After Mr. French had piled on with his talk of ogres and an imp—supposedly Mr. Gold himself—her erstwhile protector's wizardry had become just one of a kaleidoscope of outlandish things she'd been asked to deal with in the last twenty-four hours.

According to Dr. Whale, Mr. Gold was also an expert in legal documents. That sounded down to earth. If anyone knew how to break the conservatorship that kept her from leaving the hospital a free woman, it would be him. "Call," she'd whispered.

Clasping her hands, she prayed, _Please—be on your way right now_.

Close by, she caught Mr. French murmuring, "It's too late. It's just too late. I doubt she'll ever remember who I am."

She heard raised voices and opened her eyes. Looking out the ward's glass wall, past the nurse's station to the hallway, she noticed a commotion. The nurse with the strawberry blonde coiffure was trying to prevent someone from entering.

_It's him. It has to be him._ She took a deep breath and held it.

A hand grasped the edge of the doorway. Then a cane pushed the nurse aside. Mr. Gold came into view, trailed by Dr. Whale. On the threshold, he stopped, gazing across the suite of rooms to her. As their eyes locked, she realized he was waiting for her permission to enter. She nodded.

Mr. Gold hobbled past the nurse's station, hurrying despite his cane. He pushed open the glass door and came straight to her bedside.

"You sent me a message. Something about, uh, needing a lawyer?"

Mr. French grabbed his arm. "No."

The bearded doctor flanked Mr. Gold on his other side, towering over him. "The young lady's interests are being looked after by her father. She doesn't need a lawyer."

Mr. Gold shoved Mr. French's hand away. Without looking anywhere except into her eyes, he replied, "Regina Mills' conservatorship was issued under false pretenses. It's null and void. With Storybrooke's court system in shambles, no one could have had time to obtain another. Therefore, the right to look after the young lady's interests belongs solely to the young lady herself."

She blinked several times. "As simple as that?"

"Yeah, as simple as that." A faint smiled curved his lips. "My dear, what do _you_ want to do?"

* * *

**Hi! **_Pretty please, could you leave a review? Thanks! _Katryn Depp's wonderful video "His Heart" (2:40 min): **youtube DOT com/watch?v=TK7fO8j1Z30**


	2. No One Decides My Fate

_**Chapter 2**_

**No One Decides My Fate**

She squinted, trying to block out the insanely bright light on the ward to focus on Mr. Gold's brown eyes. He was waiting for her reply. She leaned closer to be sure he could hear her above the endless announcements reverberating from the intercom. "No one decides my fate… but me?"

"Yes. Only you." Mr. Gold's soft voice was reassuring, but his forehead was crinkled with concern.

She bit her lip. _Up to me—but only so long as he agrees with my choice?_ "What do _you_ think I should do?"

Mr. Gold centered his cane in front of him. He stared down, thinking. Then he lifted his gaze again. "Leave the hospital. That's the first thing. You're not ill and you're not crazy."

_I like the sound of that_. Behind Mr. Gold, she could see that Mr. French appeared out-of-his depth while the black-bearded psychiatrist seemed downright thwarted. Dr. Whale hovered off to the side, looking uncertain. Mr. Gold was the only one gazing at her like he expected her to take charge.

"And I recommend going through the proper discharge process. That will carry weight if there's need for a lawsuit later."

"That sounds like an insult," the psychiatrist said.

Mr. Gold glanced at him sidelong. "Nice not to be misunderstood."

She took a deep breath. Then she sat up, pushed down the sheets, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her yellow wraparound hospital gown was hiked up to her thighs. The spot on her upper arm where the nurse with the strawberry blonde bun had jabbed her full of tranquilizer still ached. Her head felt like it was packed with cotton. _As if they wanted to store my brain away for safekeeping. Well, too bad. I want to use it._

Swallowing down her nausea, she mumbled, "They doped me."

"Without your consent." Mr. Gold stated it matter-of-factly.

She nodded. As she darted her gaze around, she saw needle nurse pushing through the glass door with her rolling drug cart. _Keep her away from me._

"Take my arm. Let's get out of this fishbowl, at least. There has to be somewhere in this hospital where you can have some privacy to think."

Nodding again, she grasped Mr. Gold's wrist, leaned then lurched, pushing him off-balance. Dr. Whale sprang forward and steadied both of them. "Perhaps you should lie down again until the drug wears off?"

_No. _She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, making odd sounds where it stuck to her dry inner cheeks. Rasping, she said, "Last night I was wearing clothes—real clothes. I want them."

The lines in Mr. Gold's forehead eased. Pivoting on his cane, he confronted the nurse. "You heard the young lady. And find her a room where she can get dressed."

Whatever look he gave her, it wiped the indignation clean off her face. "Yes, sir. Right away."

* * *

A half hour later she sat on the white leather couch in Dr. Whale's office, one foot on his black lacquered coffee table, lacing up her dark brown ankle boot.

_Damn, I have cute taste._ The only memory she had of wearing anything other than a flimsy hospital gown was the short hectic time between waking up on the road and being disrobed in the emergency room. Hospital clothing was designed to make patients' bodies accessible to medical workers. The lovely layers of clothing she'd just put on were designed for her. She'd adored every scrap of them—from the lacy yellow bra and panties and the silky eggplant purple tights to the matching jacket, dark flowered shirt, and beige tweed skirt.

She almost felt like a person. She didn't know if she was ready to claim the identity that had stuffed the large carpet bag purse with crumpled post-in notes, rose-colored lipstick, a paperback of _Love of Seven Dolls_ and another of Erich Fromm, crackly bags of yogurt raisins, cinnamon breath mints, and other oddments. _But I like the woman who picked out these wedge heel boots_.

She heard a tentative knock on the door then Mr. Gold's even more tentative, "Belle, uh, miss, are you ready to talk a little? And I have some discharge papers, too."

"Just—just a minute." When she got to her feet, one ankle turned in, and she immediately toppled down on the couch again. She sighed. The boots were still darling. They just didn't go with a chlorpromazine hangover. She picked up the black-and-white, beer stein-sized coffee mug Dr. Whale had filled for her and took as many sips as she could without burning her mouth. Scouting a route to the door that included a lot of things to hold onto, she thought, _I can do this_.

She scooted down the couch. Standing, she pulled herself along Dr. Whale's award-displaying bookshelves and finally reached the door. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the knob and swung it open.

Mr. Gold's lips quivered as if he were about to smile. Then his forehead wrinkled with a kind of longing. He blinked as if to dispel that emotion and ended up with a sort of professional cheerfulness. "Sit back on the couch, my dear. I'll hand you the papers one-by-one."

_Oh, lord. He really is expecting me to take charge._ She turned away from the door to stare at the couch. For some inexplicable reason, she didn't want to disappoint him by looking helpless. After a deep breath, she took aim, accomplished four tottering steps, and collapsed on it. Looking up, she gave him a big smile.

He closed the door behind him and hobbled over. Instead of sitting beside her, he lowered himself to the coffee table, propped his cane on the edge, and spread out the papers beside him.

"Dear, you're going to have to sign _Isabelle French_—even if that seems strange to you."

"Yes." That was the name she'd seen on the assortment of cards in the purse—a State of Maine identification card, an ATM card, a _Free mead with every fifth hamburger_ punch card from a diner, and a Storybrooke city employee card. "I can sign that."

"I need to call you something—" Mr. Gold hesitated "—anything you choose."

"Belle," she said, though the name sounded like a role she was assuming in a play. "You can call me… Belle."

* * *

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